


Gallavich Goes to Couples Therapy

by rideswraptors



Series: Gallavich Shorts [3]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Gallavich goes to couples therapy, M/M, crack fic really, lol this would be so entertaining, shameless-esque trigger warnings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:27:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22389424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: What the title says.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Series: Gallavich Shorts [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1611559
Comments: 24
Kudos: 314





	1. Chapter 1

They’re both sitting in the counselor’s office. Ian is much more relaxed than Mickey, who keeps bouncing his leg and swiping at his nose. 

“Settle down,” he muttered.

“It’s been _five_ fucking minutes,” Mickey growled back.

“She said she would be right back. It’s not a scam or a setup, it’s therapy.”

“She’s a spic, you check her out?” 

“ _Jesus_ , yes, Mickey, I checked her out.” He shoved at his husband. “And she’s from Honduras, not Mexico you bigoted asshole.” 

“Ey it’s _justified_ , those fuckers go hard or not at all.” 

“Well she’s not with the cartel, so you can relax.” 

Mickey let out a harried sigh. “Fine.” Ian reached up to put a hand to the back of his neck, squeezing gently. Mickey dropped his head and tried to take some deep breaths. For Ian’s sake. They wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for Ian’s other therapist. The one that gave him his prescriptions. She said she wanted a third party opinion on their relationship and referred them over. It was free, so Mickey didn’t really have ground to stand on when he tried to refuse. Whatever, it was fine. She was just going to ask them about their relationship. No big deal. 

But the bitch came out swinging. 

“All right, gentlemen, thanks for your patience. Some of my clients can get a little…” 

“Clingy?” Mickey offered.

“Upset,” she countered. “So Ian and Mickey, you’ve been married for how long?” 

“Four years, six months,” Mickey answered without missing a beat. Ian grinned over at him and pulled his hand into his lap. 

“And how long were you together before that?”

Mickey snorted as Ian answered. “That’s a bit...complicated? We’ve known each other since we were kids. Off and on for like, what? 10 years?”

“Seven. Jail one year, Mexico for two.” 

“The timeline’s messy,” Ian explained a tad too cheerfully. The therapist lady looked between them skeptically but lifted her pen to write that down.

“Okay. How about how you met?” 

They both froze and looked at each other. Ian lifted his brows. 

“What? I gotta tell her?” 

“You don’t want me to.” 

“By all means, tough guy, lay it on her.” 

Ian turned back to her, expression blank and tone even. “He thought I raped his sister, so he tried to kill me.” 

“ _Ey!_ She said you did. Not my fault you have shitty taste in beards.” 

Ian ticked each off with a finger: “Angie, Svetlana…”

“Okay, shut up,” he said putting a hand to Ian’s face and pushing him aside. “My sister was hanging around him too much. She was upset, said he messed with her, so me and my brothers went to make things even.” 

“He didn’t catch me.” 

“Irrelevant, he was training for the Army. The _real_ reason we got together is because this dipshit broke into my bedroom and tried to kill _me_ with a tire iron.” 

“Kinda...spiralled from there.”

The woman’s face journey, the longer they talked, was incredible. She went from confusion, to disbelief, to horror. Mickey wanted to laugh. He fucking knew this was going to be a waste of time. This snobby Northside bitch didn’t know jack about life on the Southside. How the hell was she supposed to understand them at all? 

“So...it’s fair to say that a good amount of your relationship is...rooted in or...surrounded by...violence?” she prompted with too much delicacy. Mickey blinked at her and leaned forward on his knees.

“We’re from the Southside,” he answered, thinking that would be enough explanation. Ian dropped a hand to his arm, thumb rubbing. 

“Our families are rough,” Ian told her. “My dad’s a deadbeat, his spends most of his time drunk or in jail.” Mickey tilted his head in acknowledgment. 

“Yeah, Frank sucks ass, but at least he’s never tried to kill us.” 

“I’ve tried to kill him,” Ian argued.

“Not the same thing. At all. Like, the dick stole our honeymoon slush fund, but my dad burned down the venue. There’s a scale.” 

The therapist was scribbling away, looking between them with increasing concern as they kept discussing their dad. She raised a hand to interrupt.

“What about your mothers?”

“Dead.”

“Bipolar and also dead. Overdose." 

“He says judgmentally even though he ran off with her after his own diagnosis.” 

“We’re really doing this _now_?”

“We’re in therapy, why not?” 

“You were married to a hooker who had your baby!”

“Not by choice!”

“I thought she could help.” 

“Obviously not.”

“I know that _now_ \--”

“Oh fuck you, you always do that.” Mickey turned to the therapist. “You wanna write some shit down? This guy likes to blame his disease when he’s being a dumbass, but he’s actually just a commitment-phobe.”

“ _I’m_ the commitment-phobe?” Ian gasped incredulously.

Mickey ticked off his points with his fingers: “Public coming out, name tattoo, jail, courthouse--”

“You spelled my name wrong.”

“It’s a stupid fucking name.” 

“Here’s a tip: you don’t have to do big, stupid gestures when you open your damn mouth every once in a while and share a feeling instead of punching me in the face.” 

Mickey lifted a hand, ready to argue, but all the hot air blew out of him. “I’ve gotten better.” 

Ian took up his hand again, pulling it into his lap. “Of course you have.” 

“And I _know_ you’re not a commitment-phobe--”

“I panicked.”

“I coulda been a little more patient, too. Like, you proposed and we went right fucking over there.” He shrugged. “Coulda waited a bit.” 

“But my intentions were fucked. I just wanted to keep you out of jail again.” 

“I did not kill that woman.” 

“I _know_.” 

They were interrupted by a loud throat clearing. Mickey even startled a little, having forgotten she was in the room. 

“So...obviously you two have a...complicated history together.” 

“No shit Sherlock,” Mickey intoned, earning him a swat from Ian. 

She looked down at her clipboard to write. “Maybe it would be easier to just ask the standard questions?”

“Fire away.”

“What is the main problem in your marriage?”

“Talking,” they answered at the same time. 

“What do you not like to talk about?”

“Feelings,” they intoned again.

"This is fun," Mickey mused, tossing a grin at Ian. "I think we're winning." He turned back to the therapist. "Are we winning?" 

"You can't win in therapy, Mick." 

" _Suuurre_ , that's what they tell the losers," he muttered, looking conspiratorially at the therapist. He seemed to believe they were on the same page and winked at her.

Her eyes widened. “Do you want a divorce?”

“Fuck no!” Mickey almost shouted. Ian dropped a hand to his knee. 

“Are you going through a bad phase?” 

Mickey snorted as Ian answered. “We kind of get thrown in the middle of everyone’s drama. Crime, unexpected pregnancies, substance abuse, it goes on.”

“Gotcha. How do you deal with those kinds of situations?” 

“Better than we used to.” 

“I’m a hit first, ask questions later person. So if he asks you a question and he doesn’t like the answer,” Mickey didn’t finish the statement but shrugged as if it were inevitable. 

“Is there a history of cheating in your relationship?” 

“I don’t know Mickey, is there?” 

“I don’t know, Ian, does grinding on grandpas for drugs and cash count as cheating?” 

Mickey kicked at him as Ian shoved him a little. It took them a second to settle and then they looked back at the very exasperated therapist. 

“What about other breaches of trust in your relationship?” 

“How about getting thrown in juvie to avoid a relationship talk?”

“How about running off with your junkie mom and not telling anybody?”

“How about getting a hooker pregnant and marrying her?”

“How about running off to the army, then going AWOL and getting arrested by the military police?”

“How about escaping jail and deciding to leave for Mexico?”

“How about agreeing to go to Mexico and then ditching me at the border? Or proposing and then changing your mind after I signed the paper?”

“How about hooking up with some random immediately after and trying to make me jealous?” 

They looked at each other for a long moment, each mentally deliberating, and then turned back to her.

“Those are the highlights,” Ian explained.

“Right,” she said slowly. “So, that’s a yes.” She sighed deeply and then went down the list. “How did your parents relate to each other?”

“Poorly.” 

“Mickey?”

“She yelled a lot. My dad’s a drunk with a Nazi bent. What do you think?” 

“How do you communicate best?”

“Sex,” they answered immediately.

“ _Oo-_ kay.” She made another note. “Let’s switch tracks for a minute. Discuss something more...positive.” She cleared her throat. “What do you like most about each other?” 

Mickey crossed his arms and leaned back, clearly reluctant to participate. Ian squeezed his knee, earning him a huff. 

"His d--"

Ian whacked his fist into Mickey's stomach, making him groan and cuss at him. Dramatics, though, it wasn't that hard.

“I love how gentle he is,” Ian said first. “People think he’s just some dumb criminal, but he always takes care of me. No matter what stupid shit I do. He’s good that way. Loves hard.” 

Mickey gently kicked his foot. “I love how fucking tough he is. You knock ‘im down, he just gets back up. People don’t see it, lookin’ at him. Say all kinds of shit. No one ever sees him comin’.” 

“I think it’s fair to say that you both see something of yourselves in the other,” the therapist tried, slowly and unsure of herself. “Something you admire. Maybe something you’re trying to be.” 

They cut glances at each other, but couldn’t full-on look. Maybe she was just hitting too close to home. They’d both spent a lot of time trying to be something they weren’t. They’d wasted a lot of time that way. 

“What’s something you don’t like?”

“I hate that he’s so sloppy around the house.”

“I hate that you’re always trying to clean stuff,” Mickey said, mocking his speech pattern.

“Now something you do like.”

“I like that he always has a plan. No matter what. He does his research and he knows how to prepare. It’s methodical. Makes sense.” 

“I like that he's so open to shit. Likes to try stuff, make himself better. Never woulda even left my own neighborhood without him." He pulled his mouth down. "Except jail." He looked at Ian for confirmation. "I'd definitely still be in jail."

"Oh totally. 100%"

"All that suppressed gay shit? I'da killed 20 people by now."

"At least."

"My dad first though."

"Really? Not Iggy?"

"I fucking hate the guy."

"But Iggy's so dumb…"

"All right I woulda shot him by now--" Ian put his hand up in a _duh_ gesture. "But not a kill shot. He's the muscle."

"Okay!" the therapist interrupted shrilly. "Assault and murder aside, your relationship seems pretty solid."

"Of course it's solid. Who the fuck said it wasn't solid?"

"Mickey--"

"Most of the couples I see come in with a specific set of issues."

"Lady we've got issues out the ass, all right? But this asshole is my husband and where I come from, that makes him my responsibility. So I came here because he asked because it's for his bipolar shit or whatever, and I'm a criminal, and we treated each other like shit for a while. But I ain't lettin you or anybody else try to say fuckin' _jack_ about what we got because you don't fucking _know_." Mickey had gotten up mid-rant and shrugged Ian's hand off him so he could storm out, slamming the door behind him. Ian and the therapist stared at the door in silence for a little while and then looked back at each other. 

"He gets defensive."

"I can see that. Should you-?"

"Nah. He won't go far. Probably smoke on the curb."

"He's very...volatile."

Ian slapped his thighs lightly. "Fifteen years ago, I would have agreed with you. So, if you don't mind, I'll just…"

"Of course. Nice meeting you."  
  



	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad for the poor therapist! I had to end it on a more positive note.

Ian was right. Mickey was smoking and pacing in front of the building. He shot Ian a look of acknowledgment, but largely ignored him. And Ian let him. There was no use talking Mickey off a ledge until he was good and ready.

"I don't like it when people say that shit," he fumed as he walked toward the edge of the sidewalk.

"I know."

"We have  _ seen _ shit. And done some shit. But we're different people now."

"I know that, too."

Mickey stopped in front of him and jabbed a finger at the building. 

"She's got no fucking right looking at you like that!" He took another drag of the cigarette then tossed it.

"Mick…"

"We have put each other through so much fucking garbage…" He stepped forward. "Ian, I  _ beat _ you. Twice. You gave me a black eye on our wedding day."

Ian shrugged. "So?"

"So," he repeated. "So?"

"Yeah, Mick,  _ so _ . So what? We haven't done that shit in years and some of those hits were totally justified." Mickey scoffed and turned to pace again. "I get that you don't like being judged, but I have no problem with what we've been through. It got me you. Period."

"I don't care what she thinks about me," Mickey shot back. "I care that she thinks you're only with me because you're crazy."

Ian softened. "Mick."

He gestured with his fingers toward his face. "I saw it in her fucking eyes, man. She's like every other shrink out there. They all think you could do better and that I'm holding you back like you're some dumb twink stuck in an abusive relationship!"

Ian moved forward to pick up his hands in his own. Mickey's were so much smaller, but they could do so much damage. He kissed a few knuckles individually.

"Hard to see past the tats."

"Removal's expensive," Mickey grumbled.

"I  _ love  _ your tattoos. And I  _ love  _ you. What they think they know doesn't matter remember?"

Mickey shook his head and cut his gaze away. Ian tugged him forward, earning the even press of their bodies and an unimpressed lift of Mickey's brows. He tilted his head back to look up at Ian and it was a natural response to slide a hand back to support it. 

"I mess up your thing?" he asked quietly. But Ian shook his head. 

"Couldn't if you tried."

"Fucking sap."

Ian grinned and let Mickey's eyes dart around his face, considering. Despite popular belief, Mickey had a head for numbers. Statistics. Probabilities. Sizing a situation up with numbers was always step one of the plan. So Ian waited and let him run them.

"How long were we in there, 30 minutes?"

"Less than 10."

" _ Jesus _ ."

Ian smiled and scratched his scalp. But then Mickey was moving, pulling him by the hand back inside. They found the therapist in her office. 

"You're back," she said, bewildered as Ian sat on the couch. Mickey stood in front of her, arms crossed.

"Yeah, look, sorry I blew up all right? It's just we've spent more time trying to stay together than just...being together."

“I’m sure it feels that way.”

“No it  _ is _ ,” he argued, taking a stride forward. Ian shot out a hand to pull him back a little. Thug emphasis didn’t help in normal-people situations. Mickey swatted back at him impatiently. “If it wasn’t my dad actually trying to kill us, it was his family trying to get me out, or his bipolar shit or jail. When we got married? We had to pretend I was marrying his sister so they’d let us use the space. We have spent half our fucking lives just trying to get to here, so we when people like you start talking shit, I get--”

“Sensitive?” she offered.

“Pissed off,” he emphasized by leaning forward. Ian swiped for his waistband again, tugging him back a bit. Mickey stumbled back enough to realize how close he was and swiped at his nose before sitting next to Ian. He dropped his elbows to his knees and Ian momentarily linked their arms to tug him in and kiss his head. When he turned back to the therapist, she was already watching them, eyes squinting thoughtfully. It was a common sight for Ian. Therapists liked to stare and be quiet while they waited for you to snap. Ian just rubbed Mickey’s back. 

“All right,” she said finally, getting up to sit across from them, pen and notebook ready. “Let’s re-focus. Clearly, digging into the history of your relationship at this point isn’t beneficial. So why don’t we focus on current concerns? You mentioned some difficulty communicating,” she said with a prompting smile. “Shall we start there?”

Ian shot a look at his husband, who was scratching an eyebrow. When he caught Ian’s gaze his hand and expression did that  _ what-the-fuck-ever _ spasm, which was just so on brand for him. Ian sat back and dropped a hand to Mickey’s thigh. 

“Yeah, let’s start there.”


End file.
